


Absolution

by charliebradcherry



Series: Charlie's 26 Samifer Ficlet Challenge [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-02
Updated: 2016-11-02
Packaged: 2018-08-28 16:49:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8454184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charliebradcherry/pseuds/charliebradcherry
Summary: The one where a hurricane of mere fury lives inside of Lucifer, and Sam is a ray of sunshine that can turn him soft by shedding his own light upon the archangel's darkness.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first part of my 26 ficlet writing challenge based on devil-in-a-winchester's aesthetics on Tumblr.

Sometimes, Lucifer thinks that he deserves it.  
  
The sensation of needles piercing right through his heart and making it bleed guilt, sucking every last inch of virtue out until all there is left is plain darkness to fill in. The furious, insensitive, _merciless_ monster that doesn’t belong to him, controlling every fiber of his being and forcing him to do barbaric actions; wiping out villages, states, continents and wallowing in the blood of thousands of sacrifices in victory. The corruption circuiting his blood and ripping his veins apart, painting every bit of white light remaining in darker colors. It fits with him anyway.  
  
What inhabits him since the day of his unfortunate fall from paradise knows exactly where to find every little fissure on the decrepit armour coiled around his heart and likes to teasingly pick at it with its nails in times of tranquility, when the wind tastes pure and trees are silently watching. Once the volcano bursts though, it becomes irked with impatience and pries it open with dark hands, striving to eagerly grasp for the archangel’s light, imprison it with possessive fingers and twist it until it suffocates.  
  
There are no memorials. There are no goodbyes.  
  
Lucifer involuntarily releases his grasp on what he’s supposed to lose.  
  
But sometimes he wonders why, after what his Father has put him through, he is left with a functioning cure to escort him out of his dark side when needed be. There are only two beings that know him better than himself.  
  
One that can _break_ him.  
  
One that can _fix_ him.  
  
There’s a human, a very kind soul that hums of solicitude and heals everything it reaches out for and touches unlike the monster that lives inside of the archangel. _Sam_. Lucifer thinks the name fits him despite how truly easy it sounds. He deserves something better, something royal and _worthy_ , but everytime Lucifer tries to think of something else, his mind shuts him off.  
  
It’s not that important. What’s important is that Sam’s touch, voice, _presence_ is a remedy.  
  
Monday, there will be finger pads on his left cheek that leisurely kill the night, smothers every cricket that croons pridefully and bathes every hour in deafening silence until dawn cracks the sky in half and light shines upon his bloody parted lips, fueling the essence of his heart and finally allowing him to sing again.  
  
Tuesday, there will be fingers deftly running through his hair, easing the hurricane in his existence and ceasing the perceptible flashes of electricity in his infuriated blue eyes. He feels like a feather floating mid air, his breath taken away and a sweet sensation of warmth enveloping him entirely – _a reminiscent of home._  
  
Wednesday, there will be lips on each of his eyelids, the act of reverence making the hairs on the back of his neck bristle and his furiously racing heart slow down until it faints behind his ribcage in arrant exhaustion. It will be sung to, it will be pampered and treated with something long forgotten, something ancient, something he hasn’t heard of in _ages_ – they call it _love_.  
  
Thursday, there will be teeth sinking into his right shoulder, sending an infinity of shivers up his spine like gentle waves across the oceans. Lucifer doesn’t know what it signifies, and why it makes him feel like he’s stumbling over his own dizziness when he’s in fact, standing completely still. Perhaps it’s a sign of being claimed by freedom and he’s not used to it yet.  
  
Friday, there will be a tongue tenderly rolling between his shoulder blades, affectionately licking the scars at the spot where his wings were, giving attention to one of his most unattractive flaws. The scars hold memorable history, and Sam is both respectful and considerate with them as if they are to be worshipped with all he has. The human sews the archangel’s wounds with kisses and makes them look less hideous the more he spends his time praising them.  
  
Saturday, there will be a mouth on his own, a finger underneath his chin so he doesn’t turn away the invitation in an indication of not deserving it. Lucifer makes a fragile sound in the back of his throat, in confusion, and curiosity, and maybe in _want_ when there are warm hands cupping his cheeks. A tongue slips between his dry and cracked lips, robbing the air from his lungs and the questions that’ve fallen asleep in the back of his mind. He stops pondering about worrisome things and invitingly sinks in the warmth that embraces him, desiring to further on explore the confines of Sam’s mouth.  
  
Sunday, there will be a voice soothingly talking to him until the storm passes, starting from the onset of the afternoon to the closure of the night. Furniture is thrown across the room, wooden components broken off and shattered glass on the floor. But beneath Sam’s honeyed voice is shelter, a sanctuary to protect his state of raw vulnerability. The sound of the human speaking is a key to Lucifer’s remaining light. It is feeble, and it flickers weakily, and it’s so sensitive that even a small peak would bust it, but it’s still there and that’s all that matters.  
  
His spirit is still _alive_ and well.  
  
Once the week has passed and the end of the storm is finally nigh, the broken seams of his tattered being have been perfectly sewn back together, holding the Morning Star back in one piece.  
  
Now, it’s a game of waiting. The hurricane shall expectedly return as it always has and tear all of the new stitches holding him together until he cracks again.  
  
But _for now_ , there is only time to enjoy the warm pair of familiar lips on his own that absolves him from all of his greatest sins and makes him feel anew.  
  
_For now_ , it’s all he has, and not treasuring the enthralling gift that his Father bestowed him would be completely foolish.


End file.
